demi-gods and hungry ghosts
by Mia-Zeklos
Summary: "A small, irrational part of him was relieved to know that his daughter, at least, would get the chance to see Daenerys's birth place bursting with life. Westeros had loved its queen, after all."


**Notes: You know, I never consider my initiation within a fandom complete until I've written one of my favourite characters dying. Always assumed it'd be Cersei, but this took me by surprise.**

 **Written for day four - P _rophecies and Dreams / Home and Family / The Long Night_ \- of the Jonerys Appreciation Week on tumblr. This combination of prompts hit me like a ton of bricks and I didn't have enough time to let this fic unfold as much as I wanted to, so hopefully the end result - even if it's a jumbled, vague, angsty mess - is somewhat enjoyable. Literally all of my fills from here on are quite joyful, so there's that at least.**  
 **Title taken from VAST's _Touched_.**

* * *

The storm had started as soon as they had neared the sea. It wasn't raining yet, but the air was heavy with it nevertheless; each thunder sounding heavier than the last.

Not for the first time, Jon was glad that they had decided to move the court to Dragonstone. The crowd that had gathered was not only rather colourful, it was also enormous and a small, irrational part of him was relieved to know that his daughter, at least, would get the chance to see Daenerys's birth place bursting with life.

Westeros had loved its queen, after all.

Truth be told, Jon thought as he climbed off of Rhaegal's back, he would have preferred to not bring Daena here today at all. She was old enough to mourn and insist that she wanted to be present and yet too young to process why he had ordered her ceremonial dress to be woven over leather despite the ever-growing heat outside. Disguised armour hadn't been able to save her mother, but it was all that Jon could think of – he couldn't confine her to the castle for the rest of her life and hope to have her love him still.

The people parted for him without a word as he passed. There was nothing left to say – there rarely was after an assassination, he supposed. Thousands had seen it happen. It had been in the middle of the celebrations from the tenth anniversary of their victory; everyone had been scrambling for the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the royal couple.

It was an image that would remain solidified in his mind for the rest of his life; Jon was both acutely aware of and eternally grateful for that fact. She had been laughing before it had happened – that rare, joyous laugh that always managed to draw a smile out of him as well – and leaning this way and that towards the crowd, letting them all feel as close to her as they wished to. Even watching her captivate them all had been a little bit like magic and Jon had joined her, an arm wrapped around her waist to pull her closer to him like it would be even easier to share the joy that way.

No one had seen the arrow coming.

Jon remembered watching her fall. He remembered catching her in his arms, stopping her descent just before she'd hit the ground. He remembered the ghost of her smile still lingering when she looked up at him, surprised and agonising. He remembered her shaking her head when he'd called for Daena because she didn't want her to see. She had kissed him, then, using all the strength she had left to gesture at him to lean down.

"She can't be here," she'd whispered even through his reassurances. "Don't let her remember me like this. I just want her to know that I love her." Every shuddering breath had started getting shallower than the last. "I love you."

He remembered that as well; every detail clearer in his head than anything else had ever been before. Her green eyes in the sunlight, the sudden, terrifying quiet that had surrounded them. Her trembling fingers against the side of his face. And blood, so much blood; more than a single arrow should have caused. It had been the only thing in his mind then even if it hadn't been the truth, because the world had come crashing down so suddenly that the majority of him hadn't managed to catch up.

He couldn't remember when she had stopped breathing.

It would drive him mad one day, Jon suspected; the uncertainty. It had only been a day and he had already tried to recall it too many times to count. It shouldn't have mattered – anyone with a bit of sense around him had told him that – but he couldn't help it. Couldn't help the constant, compulsive need to know exactly when he had lost her, meaningless as it was now.

In the end, he had stopped talking about it. He had stopped talking in general – he had done what needed to be done, made the announcement that needed to be made and had then arrived as quietly as it was possible. That didn't say much, of course; the thing that Daenerys had loved the most in life had ended up being rather loud.

In the end, she had had it all, everything that she had managed to salvage after the war. She hadn't thought much of it at the time and she hadn't been the only one – death had seemed imminent and she had been particularly hopeless when she had lost Drogon to the enemies he had tried to defend her from. _This is it_ , Jon remembered her telling him, _this is all I am_. She had been tired and bruised and freezing and the most beautiful sight he had ever seen _. This is all I have. Nothing_.

But she had had Rhaegal and him and when the war had ended, they had had Daena as well. She knew nothing of the darkness that had preceded the spring that had reigned all her life; a living, breathing testimony of the fact that the Long Night hadn't been the end of them.

It had been even more devastating and much more _pointless_ for her to lose her life now, like this. They had beat all odds to have what they had built for themselves and Jon knew that he was supposed to be grateful that they had got to have that long with each other to begin with – considering everything their lives had been, it was a miracle that they had even _met_.

He couldn't bring himself to see things that way as he stood on the shore, the waves lapping at his feet already by the time he felt Daena come to his side and lean on him. She had taken it about as well as he had – she had cried and cried until there had been no tears left and she had packed it all away for the moments when there wasn't an entire realm staring at her. They had raised a peculiar princess, Jon had always thought; stoic and collected and still more full of life than nearly anyone else he had ever met. The fact that she had wanted to be stay was proof enough of just how much she understood and how much she couldn't yet comprehend all at once. Jon didn't feel prepared to let her so close; to allow her to see the boat, the flowers, the gifts, and especially _her_. She was vaguely aware that her mother had been hurt and that she was unlikely to ever see her again, but Jon had yet to find out what exactly that meant to her.

 _I just want her to know that I love her._ But it was more than that; it had always been more than that. She had _been_ loved and Jon had received more tokens of that over the last two days than he had in a decade. If Daena remembered any of this, years from now when she was older, ready to rule on her own, he hoped it was this – the love instead of the overwhelming pain; the guidance he had tried to offer her instead of the way he'd' tried not to crumble under the suddenly twice-heavy crown on his head. Jon had long since stopped pretending that any deity was listening to him, but he sent out a prayer for it either way. For her, it was worth a try.

 **o.O.o**

Daenerys dying before he did had always been an absurd, impossible thought, but whenever Jon had had a reason to think about it anyway, he had known that it would have never been a traditional funeral for her.

The boat was covered in enough flowers to almost entirely drown out anything else. She lay in the middle, clad in the dress he remembered from her coronation. It had been a deliberate choice, he was sure, but the sight only made the ground under his feet feel a little less steady than it had before. The sensation had been a steady process ever since the day of the celebrations and he was afraid that soon enough, the grief chipping away all of him bit by bit would leave nothing behind.

"Arrows."

Jon turned on his heel just in time to see Daena trail a finger over the tip of the nearest one and felt terror creep through the numbness as he pulled her away as gently as he could manage while still being firm. The circle around them had been diminished to only their closest people and she had tentatively broke out of the invisible shell she had built up so carefully; her dark inquisitive eyes fixed on her father's in demand of an answer.

"Yes," he got out. The sound of his own voice was rather starting now. "We need them for— They're used when—"

"Daena." Sansa's voice, quiet but determined, interrupted his stumbling answers before he had had the chance to do any explaining for himself. She had always been one of the people with the biggest impact on his daughter, really, so it made sense that she immediately looked up at her now. "May I have a word?"

Daena let herself be led away with a careful nod and Jon let out a sigh of relief. With any luck, she would stay with her aunt thorough the ceremony.

Then again, he thought as he pushed the boat out to sea and said his last, wordless farewell in front of the hushed crowd, fortune had never seemed to favour him.

Jon raised his bow. Just like that, the world disappeared in the flames.

 **o.O.o**

It had been _hours_. Dragonstone still hadn't managed to fall quiet – the court was never quiet, not even after the death of one of their rulers and the temporary population was significantly larger now – but no one had thought to bother him since the ceremony. Rhaegal had stayed by his side the entire time, staring out at the horizon as if he could still see her long after Jon had lost track of the boat. Maybe he could. There was no way for Jon to tell and just like with Daena, it was torture to even consider that he wouldn't be able to explain. Dragons were wise creatures, he had started believing that a long time ago, but it couldn't be easy; the realisation that he had lost _everything_. Maybe it would be for the best if he couldn't realise. Jon had been ready to set the world as it were; he couldn't imagine what he would have been capable of if he had had the power to do so.

Except— not quite everything, perhaps. There was the unmistakable sound of wings unfolding and the overwhelming, unbearable weight in his chest intensified and lessened at the same time as he watched Daena step closer, her light hair already soaking wet from the rain that had undoubtedly already reached the far end of the island, but currently shielded by Rhaegal's form stretching over her. The wind coming from the sea had only been growing stronger by the hour; the only farewell that Jon would have ever really accepted. Despite everything, in a moment of madness, he realised that he was smiling.

"Arya said that you would let me follow you now."

She sounded calmer now, if still as quiet as she had been before. Her entire world had been pulled up from under her feet, after all; despite the vastly different circumstances, Jon had enough experience with vanishing parents to be able to understand.

"She did?"

"Yes."

"I'm not going _anywhere_ , Daena."

Perhaps that was what made it all so difficult to explain, after all – perhaps it was the only truth he had. He had never considered the possibility that he would have to do any of this _alone_.

She reached out without a word and Jon allowed himself be pulled into the shelter Rhaegal's wings provided for them both.

"Stay with me?"

"Of course," he said, desperate for her to know. _You don't ever need to ask_. "Always."

With yet another deafening crack, it finally started raining.


End file.
